Any Wonder
by Kuro Guardian
Summary: Is it any wonder he waits knowing the spy will be soon? Too hurt, too tired: to run, to fight back... to cry for help.


It all started with a hit, a slap. Snape had been saying something thin lips pulled tight over feral picket fence of teeth spitting hateful dribble in his face. Too close, so close the heat of fetid breath washes over him making it hard to think. And he'd felt it building up until he slapped the bastard to the rough stone floor with a hand cloaked in light. Slapped him so hard his neck might have broken. And while the other's like Semus and Dean would crow about it anyone with sense knew that a hit like that ought to have killed.

So for Snape to be merely kneeling on the floor blood oozing like drool from his mouth as opposed to laid out cold was a wonder. And when he stood with all the deliberation of a king about to burn his kingdom, there was something terrible about the blood on his face and the tilt of his head eyes as blankly empty as the moon. He smiled; looked around the room freezing them all with a basilisk like stare and then smirked as he wiped away the blood. Yes he even turned to Harry himself and smiled eyes crinkling up into happy little crescents. "Class dismissed." And again smiling looking a the staring faces, "Dismissed, go."

The flurry of activity is almost comical with a smiling Severus looking on arms folded as he sits back against his desk. Everyone expects the other shoe to drop, but the man is silent gliding down the halls like nothing matters, face a mask and Harry eager. … Eager to know what it would take. It's not so hard to find him on his nightly patrols, not so hard to shove him up against the rough stonework for all it matters. The eyes are blank, the face impassive as he smashes their lips together and the elder does nothing.

Does not struggle, does not encourage, does not even accept merely lies there braced against the wall. It might as well not be happening for all he reacts and now it's a need to know. How far how much how? What does it matter? He doesn't know though his fingers are at those damnable buttons, claw at his own clothes, yank those impossibly long legs open. Ineptly he prods at the tight pucker and for all the reaction he gets four fingers might well be none. Enraged now he jerks the slender pelvis up on his own. "Look at me, look at me!" Jerking the too thin face by it's pointed chin slapping the fool again. Only to be throttled to within an inch of his miserable life. Gasping in pain as the lean berserker folds into himself against the wall robes about his waist. Crying as uglily honest as ever though he remains as silent as he was at the first. Reaching out a hand sense a distant of miles.

Blinking back coma as he sees the absolute white of the infirmity ceiling above him. He's not surprised to turn his head and see down the row another dark head on a pillow. Blinks staggered and those eyes are staring back alive and glittering and wary. Choking on the unequivocal pain as he tries to sit up. Forcing his way through it to stumble-step his way down to the other who lies on his side. Carefully edging in and scooting close fingers barely grazing the flimsy cheap material Snape's gown is made of. Just barely touching the trembling form.

Whispering as he carefully ignores all the voices saying this is wrong. Whispering and pulling up the gown as he readjusts his position. Pushing the emaciated man on his threadbare back he studies eyes gone wild with fear and loathing. Dispassionately studies a mouth wide with the torrent of abuse it no doubt spews. "Hexed silent and restrained… you'd think you were the one in the wrong." He slaps him watching the body abruptly still the eyes alien in their liquid darkness the white the very thinnest outline around it. He kisses a pale swan of a throat it's rabbit pulse a humming in his mouth. He kisses fledging frail chest and the bruises along his hips from the day or week or night before.

"Tell me to stop and I will." His tongue slides smoothly between jagged jaws as the lips work to form 'S'. Automatically he seeks the tight warmth in which to hide his impatient prick. His fingers tear more then trace, pierce more then prepare. The way the bastard writhes is delightful to watch. "Harry!" The thrice-damned headmaster stands aghast face somewhere between fear and disappointment tinged with hatred. And Harry has the legs spread has the hips raised. And he can't deny that burying himself in now would be the ultimate high. Fucking this strange little monster while the saint looks on. "Harry."

And the world tips over it's edge. He gets off near scott-free except for the 'Talks' because obviously the poor boy is very "troubled". Nevermind he has damn neared murdered and has all but raped the poor man twice. Will most likely try again and Minerva takes pains to keep him in sight her tabby form astride black-covered shoulders, between white-scared hands. "Good kitty." And those fathomless eyes see right though him so guileless and cold. It's cold the smoke rising from his nostrils and its no surprise he's waiting out here knowing the spy will be by soon too hurt and tired to escape, to fight back … to call for help. So he waits feeling the weigh of his eyes.


End file.
